I’ve been thinking about refugees a lot lately. In the late 90s my husband, Bobby, and I were missionaries, working with a team in Austria who tried to meet some of the physical needs of the never-ending stream of refugees while sharing the love of Jesus with them.

I wanted to write something about the refugees and friends we met in an effort to remind myself, and maybe you, that refugees are people, not policy.


Our Assyrian Family


I don't remember officially meeting them, but their smiles will stay with me forever. Big, toothy grins under slightly hooked noses. Gorgeous olive complexions and rounded happy cheeks. Sara had jet black, frizzy hair. Her mother, Khava, had a grey ponytail, braided down her back, the crown of her head always covered with a scarf, knotted at the nape of her neck.

Refugees from Iraq, they proudly claimed the ancient city of Nineveh as their home. Sara's brother, Yosep, had the same frizzy hair as his sister, only in a bright red version. Certainly, there's a grand, historical story that explains why a Middle Eastern man would have red hair. I looked it up but can’t find a logical explanation. Sara’s father was not with them. Though I know he passed away years before we met, we never really talked about what happened to him or what he was like.

I also don’t know exactly how or why they began their refugee journey. All I know for sure is that Sara’s family is traditionally Christian. If you remember your Bible stories, the city of Nineveh was saved by Jonah’s preaching, post-belly-of-the-whale. The people of Nineveh accepted God’s love when implored to repent.

Ninveah, Iraq

Assyrian Ninevites still cling to this tradition and that probably doesn’t make the predominantly Muslim country of Iraq happy. In 1933, the Iraqi government called for attacks on Assyrians which resulted in 3000 Assyrians being slaughtered. Friction over religion, tradition and culture continues to this day. Sara and Khava descended from this long line of traditionally Christian people who kiss their Bibles after reading them, but don’t know much of what is inside. In fact, I'm not sure they could distinguish their personal spiritual journey from the Assyrians we read about in the Bible.

Sara and her mother did not feel safe in Iraq. In fact, the fear they felt in staying where persecution against Christians might any day become violent and deadly outweighed the peril they would face in making a journey to Austria to become refugees. This journey would be secretive and uncomfortable and long, over 2000 miles. They were probably hidden and scared. It was illegal to leave Iraq without permission. This trip to freedom and a new life would cost most of their savings, days of travel time, and all their courage.

They made it to Austria, but the road to a new life continued. Like most refugees Sara and her mom would have a long wait before they were granted citizenship in any nation.

When I met Khava and Sara, they were living in a hotel in the tiny village of Altenmarkt, Austria. The hotel had been converted into refugee housing with one family occupying each 10 x 15 foot room. Sara’s room had two beds, a table and four chairs, a small wardrobe and a chest that doubled as a kitchen counter. The wardrobe easily held their few belongings. On their “counter” rested a hot plate with one burner, a couple of pots, and a plastic container to hold dirty dishes. In the bathroom down the hall, they washed themselves, dishes and some clothes. It was shared between ten rooms on their floor.

Though it was difficult in these conditions, Sara and her mom loved to cook. They taught me how to make dolma or stuffed grape leaves filled with rice, meat and vegetables. Khava chopped faster than anyone I had ever seen and wrapped her grape leaves so tightly you could not unroll them even to see what was inside. She laughed and laughed at my first attempts at this Mediterranean delicacy, my floppy dolmas so easily distinguishable from hers. She would laugh at them still today. My grape leaf rolling skills have not improved.

I loved the dinners Khava and Sara served in their tiny room. In fact, I loved them so much that I tried to write down the recipes to replicate at home. Sara's English was amazingly fluent but she had trouble keeping the words “chicken” and “kitchen” straight. Her slips made my recipe writing hysterical and confusing. “Come into the chicken” she would say, or “then you add the kitchen.”

Briyani

Besides dolma, my favorite Iraqi dish was called briyani, a delicious conglomeration of rice, meat and vegetables, cooked together then piled on a platter, family-style dining at its best. In the tiny kitchen of Sara and Khava, my husband, Bobby, and I learned that meat could be used as an addition, a flavoring, rather than the main part of a meal and he loved it as much as I did. It was amazing what they could do with that one-burner hot plate.

Initially, I saw Sara and Khava as a ministry opportunity, just two more faces in the long line of refugees needing help and understanding. But over time, they became my friends. They observed me, knew when I was overwhelmed, and cared. Not only did they care about me, they cared about Bobby and knew I might not be taking care of him or myself the way they thought I should.

One evening after a hectic kids’ program with refugee children, I visited Khava and Sara. We chatted and drank tea. Though I suspected the tea might keep me up past my bedtime, I knew it would also keep me awake on the twisty, dark, thirty-minute drive home. I needed that. My life had become an endless progression of activities, prayer letters, and tiny cups of Turkish coffee with piles of sugar cubes. I often felt tired and frazzled, needing naps more often and zoning out during the rare times alone with my husband.

After a relaxing but short visit with Sara and her mom, I gathered my belongings - coat, scarf, backpack, and car keys. As I fumbled my way toward their door, a conversation in Assyrian broke out and the two women jumped up, bustling. Sara asked me to wait a moment. I paused with my hand on their doorknob, silently praying I could make it to the car before anyone else I needed to visit laid eyes on me, delaying me for another hour, another visit, another cup of tea. While visiting and friendship evangelism with the refugees was crucial, at this moment I really just wanted to go home and go to bed.

As I stood there, Sara and Khava began packing a shopping bag. They loaded it with metal containers, bowls covered with plastic wrap and something soft wrapped in paper towels. Then, Sara handed the heavy bag to me.

“You take this home to feed Bobby,” she said.

“No!” I protested, knowing they had sacrificed money and time to make the delicious smelling meal that was being thrust into my already full hands. I spent a few more minutes protesting uselessly. That bag was going home with me whether I liked it or not.

Realizing I was outmatched I sighed and said, “Thank you so much. I never have time to cook.”

Sara smiled and translated what I said to Khava who laughed and said something back. Sara laughed as well, then gave voice to her mother's words, “My mother knows this.”

I might have been called to Austria to help people just like Sara and Khava, but that night, they helped me.

For the care and concern Khava showed for Bobby and me, we labelled her “our Assyrian mother.” She looked out for us, was protective and did everything she could to provide a respite for us in the room she and Sara called home. Though I was there to help them and others like them, a genuine friendship developed and grew. It blessed me so much then, and the memory of how they served with what little they had blesses me today.

The last time I saw Sara and Khava they were in a new apartment on the outskirts of Vienna near the Vienna Woods. It reminded me of church camp, lots of brown wood, dirt, and trees. They had actual bedrooms instead of sleeping and eating and cooking all in the same room. They had room for a couch, a huge luxury.

Bobby and I knew we were soon leaving to come back to the U.S., so we visited “our” Assyrian family one last time. After cooking dinner, visiting and eating, we walked down a dark path to our car. I turned for a last look at these precious friends. They were still standing by their front door waving and smiling.

We lost touch after that… Refugees move a lot. I wish I knew where they are now. I like to think they are still smiling, mothering someone new, and loving their permanent home wherever it may be.